


The Myth of Kissing Princes

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No TARDIS, no toaster, and Amy's throwing up in the mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Myth of Kissing Princes

Amy returns from the shops to find the Doctor on the sofa with what looks like half an electrical shop on his lap.

"What are you doing to the toaster?"

"Mm uffdrrding..." He takes the sonic screwdriver out of his mouth. "I'm upgrading it."

She dumps a Tesco bag on the floor and sits down next to him. "Again?"

"The toast still isn't right. It burns before it gets how I want it. I _hate_ burnt toast."

"You're bored, aren't you?"

He sits the remains of the toaster on the coffee table and leans back. "Can we have sex?"

"I'm not in the mood."

This seems to cheer him up slightly. "Can we have an argument about it? About how you won't let me have sex with you because I neglect your emotional needs?" He almost bounces on the sofa. "I saw that on _Eastenders_ last night. She threw a glass at him and then there was a cliffhanger."

"When we get back in the TARDIS..." she starts.

Wrong thing to say, apparently. " _If_ we get back in the TARDIS."

" _When_ we get back in the TARDIS, are we going to keep doing this?"

"Upgrading innocent kitchen appliances?"

"I mean the sex. The domestics. All this."

He thinks it over for a moment. "I don't know," he says with increasingly-rare honesty. "Do you want to?"

"I wouldn't mind either way."

"Oh." He picks up the toaster again. "Well, up to you."

"You don't have a preference?"

He looks up at her. "Amy?"

"Yes?"

"Do we have enough money for a new toaster?"

 

*

 

"It's a good thing we don't have any neighbours," he says with a note of pride.

She slaps him on the chest playfully. "It's not as big as your ego."

"It's what I do with it that counts."

She yawns. "I wouldn't mind doing this on the TARDIS. Sometimes. After adventures, maybe." She wriggles against him. "Doesn't narrowly escaping death really turn you on?"

"No," he says, like it had never occurred to him that it might be possible.

"Oh. Me neither."

"Of course not."

"But still, we can do it occasionally."

"As the mood strikes."

"Yeah."

 

*

 

"I'm late."

He opens one eye and and checks the alarm clock. "At half past seven in the morning?"

"My period. Is late." She folds her arms and looks at him accusingly.

He closes his eye again. "You're under a lot of stress, it's perfectly normal."

She pokes his arm until he opens both eyes. "I'm never late. You could set your watch by me."

"Who says I don't?" He props himself up on his elbows. "Are you being all... womanish?"

"What?"

He grins at her. "Is that right? Womanish? Isn't that what blokes say when women are being strange?"

"You," she says, "are banned from watching any more television. Especially soap operas."

"Are we having an argument?"

She catches herself before she replies to the question. "Stop changing the subject! I could be..." She gestures weight-gain and blows her cheeks out.

"We're not even the same species. I've got a chromosome you don't have, meiosis is very picky about things like that." He rubs her arm. "I promise I can't get humans pregnant."

"Have you ever tried?" she asks, trying not to sound hysterical.

Wrong question. He pulls his hand away and closes his eyes again. "Make me some breakfast, woman."

"I hate you."

 

*

 

He holds her hair back for her as she vomits into the toilet. "Food poisoning," he tells her.

"I had toast!"

"From an untried toaster. I'm taking it back to the shop. There's something wrong with it." He rubs her back and steps away to let her wash her mouth out in the sink.

"It's morning sickness," she says between mouthfuls of cold water.

"It's sickness, yes, and I'll grant that it's morning on this side of the planet, but that doesn't prove anything."

Amy dries her face on a towel and turns to him. "Sonic me."

He blinks at her. "You've just been violently sick and I've _told_ you it's not a sex toy." He sighs dramatically. "Just because a man owns an object which _admittedly_ may look slightly phallic from some angles-"

"Sonic me to see if you've knocked me up."

"It doesn't do that."

"Why the hell not?!" She holds out a hand. "Give it to me, I'll work it out for myself."

He takes her hand between his own instead. "Remember that talk we had about the birds and the bees and the Time Lords? That long, long talk with diagrams?"

Amy pales. "I'm going to be sick again."

He moves just before he's faced with the problem of how to get vomit out of tweed.

 

*

 

He looks at the pregnancy test for a full five minutes before heading out to the garden and the TARDIS. He turns up in the bedroom at 2am, smelling faintly of grease.

Amy doesn't move. "You're sleeping on the sofa."

"I'm sorry."

"You're still sleeping on the sofa."

He sits on the edge of the bed. "I was wrong, and you were right, and I really am sorry."

"That totally makes up for you leaving me alone all day."

"I needed some time to think about things."

"I quite needed someone to talk to. About the same things. At least I assume it's the same things. Who knows with you, eh? You were probably thinking about... about... string. String theory."

"My children are dead."

Amy turns over and looks up at him. "What?"

"All of them. I don't know if I can go through that again."

She tries to think of something comforting and says "It could live to be ninety."

"I'll be around for a lot longer that. He'll die long before I do."

"He?"

"I sonicked you before I said anything. Sorry." He doesn't seem sorry at all.

Amy sits up in the bed and stares down at her abdomen. "Oh my God, it's real."

He moves away slightly. "Are you going to be sick again?"

"First I'm going to faint."

 

*

 

The next morning he's gone. Amy is up in seconds, pulling back the curtains and yes, the TARDIS is still there, leaning to one side like a drunk garden shed. She leans her forehead against the glass of the window and breathes out slowly.

The door opens behind her. "I've been thinking some more."

"I thought you'd run off," she says.

He looks shocked at the very idea. "What? I'd never do that." He holds up a tray. "I made you some toast."

"Lots of toast."

"I was running some tests on the toaster." He hands her the tray and takes a slice for himself. "Anyway," he says through a mouthful of toast, "I was thinking about you and me and Hamish."

"Who's Hamish?"

He points at her belly. "You don't like Hamish? What about Fergus?"

"Doctor..."

"I think I can do it. Doctor Dad. I can teach him to fly the TARDIS and you can make him sound Scottish."

"I don't want to have a baby," she says, getting the sentence out as fast as possible.

He blinks once and then shrugs. "Okay."

"What?"

"I think I can get the power running in the TARDIS for a bit, we can use the medical bay to sort everything out." He takes another bite of toast. "That was a euphemism, I don't know how explicit you want to be about it all. Humans are a bit weird."

"Two minutes ago you were wanting to be Doctor Dad."

"A man can change his mind, can't he?"

"Are you..."

"I'll get the TARDIS started up. Oh, and I think we can leave in the next week or so."

"You're lying to me."

"No, really, two weeks at most. I didn't want to, you know, steal your limelight." He chews on his toast and looks at her like he's daring her to say something.

"So you're... fine?"

"I'm always fine, Pond." He claps his hands together. "All that domestic stuff, no thanks. Been there, done that, washed vomit from the t-shirt."

"So we're good?"

"Aren't we always?"

*

She leaves her door unlocked in the TARDIS every night, just in case he knocks.

He never does.


End file.
